


How About Every Lifetime

by allyasavedtheday



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Wedding, M/M, POV Alternating, Season 3 Finale, Season 5 Finale, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22562206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyasavedtheday/pseuds/allyasavedtheday
Summary: The man standing in the other room is unmistakably Ian but he looks- older. His hair is different, his face more angular and chiselled – the roundness in his cheeks that Mickey secretly loves is nowhere in sight – and he’s wearing a suit. No, not a suit: a tuxedo.He’s looking at his own reflection in the mirror, tying a bowtie around his neck and Mickey sees him grin at something the other person in the room says. It’s only when Ian’s attention is diverted that Mickey’s is too and his eyes travel to…tohim?Because it’s him. It’s Mickey.Older, cleaner, with a bruise forming on his cheekbone and around his eye, wearing a black suit with a white tuxedo jacket and he’s- he lookshappy.What the fuck did he drink last night?*Ian and Mickey keep visiting their wedding day until they get things right in every timeline.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 194
Kudos: 403





	1. 3x12

**Author's Note:**

> okokok so as soon as i watched the season 10 finale and saw all the parallel gifsets between the earlier seasons and now i couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if the younger versions of themselves could see how the end up. so because i have no willpower i wrote it lmao. each chapter will focus on a different moment in canon where things went wrong for them and how that gets fixed through the power of hope and love and a lil bit of timetravel :'))
> 
> this isn't a typical timetravel fic in the sense that the timetravel upsets the canon events - think of it more as ians and mickeys from different universes getting a chance to see what they're gonna become one day and using that to make things right in their own timeline. 
> 
> i hope all of this makes sense but feel free to ask if it doesn't!!! updates should be every couple of days :D also the title is from I Believe by the jonas brothers. 
> 
> first up: the season 3 finale, post-wedding and ian announcing that he's leaving - enjoy <3

Mickey takes another swig from his beer and sniffs, forearms draped over his bent knees as he replays the conversation in his mind over and over again.

_Don’t go_.

That’s all he’d had to say. He’d even gotten halfway there. But after all this time he still couldn’t give Ian what he wanted. Couldn’t give himself what he wanted.

His eyes catch on the wedding ring that feels like a lead weight around his finger and tears begin to prick at the corner of his eyes. Fucking _fuck_. How did he get here?

Married. To a _woman_ who’s pregnant with his kid. After his dad- after he made him…

Mickey scrubs his free hand over his face, tilting his head back against the wall. The floorboards are cold beneath him, the wall an unyielding weight against his back. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here – long enough to get through a case and a half of beer, he guesses.

The worst thing in all of this though; in getting to this point, he lost Ian. Ian, who’d been the one fucking beacon of light in Mickey’s life for the past two years. The one thing that the rest of the world couldn’t touch.

Until his dad found out at least.

Now Mickey’s more fucking alone than ever, trapped in a marriage to a woman that makes bile rise in his throat every time he looks at her and afraid to so much as put one fucking toe out of line lest his dad put a bullet between his eyes. Or worse, between Ian’s. Jesus christ, had it really cost the universe so much to just let him enjoy being with Ian for a while?

Just to have this one thing to keep. Even if it hadn’t been forever, it would’ve been enough.

Mickey closes his eyes and releases a sigh, draining the end of his bottle. He drops it on the floor next to him, taking its place beside his other empties before he reaches for the half-drank six-pack on his right.

He just wishes things could be fucking different.

*

When Mickey wakes up he feels disorientated, head pounding with the tell-tale signs of a hangover. He sits up groggily, rolling his neck to get the crick out of it – he must’ve fallen asleep on the floor – and rubbing a hand over his face. Fuck, he drank too much last night.

(Not enough to make him forget his life.)

(Not enough to make him forget Ian is gone.)

A familiar laugh catches his attention and his head shoots up, eyes wide. The brightness of the room takes him by surprise and makes him squint, needing a second for his eyes to adjust. But when they do his stomach drops.

Where the fuck is he?

He’s not in his bedroom, or even his house for that matter – he doesn’t recognise where he is. His eyes slowly track around the room, searching for some detail that might hint at where he could even be. The room’s pretty non-descript, hardly bigger than a closet but it’s bright from the light shining through the window above his head.

He hears the laugh again –_ Ian’s_ laugh – and then he’s scrambling to his feet. The door is open an inch and he’s about to rip it clean off its hinges until he hears another voice. He catches himself at the last second, fingers clutched around the doorknob as he holds still, and he peeks through the tiny gap in the door.

And it’s Ian but it’s not Ian.

The man standing in the other room is unmistakably Ian but he looks- older. His hair is different, his face more angular and chiselled – the roundness in his cheeks that Mickey secretly loves is nowhere in sight – and he’s wearing a suit. No, not a suit: a tuxedo.

He’s looking at his own reflection in the mirror, tying a bowtie around his neck and Mickey sees him grin at something the other person in the room says. It’s only when Ian’s attention is diverted that Mickey’s is too and his eyes travel to…to _him?_

Because it’s him. It’s Mickey.

Older, cleaner, with a bruise forming on his cheekbone and around his eye, wearing a black suit with a white tuxedo jacket and he’s- he looks _happy_.

What the fuck did he drink last night?

He watches, enraptured, as Ian saunters over to the other version of him, fingers catching in the lapels of Mickey’s jacket to tug him close.

“Just let me do it,” Ian says, reaching up to the untied bowtie around Mickey’s neck.

Mickey stares, breath stolen from his throat as the older version of himself watches Ian with an unguarded, open expression. It’s so honest and affectionate Mickey feels his own face heat up in embarrassment. He feels like he should look away, like he’s intruding on a private moment.

(He supposes he is but he’s not sure if it counts when he’s watching himself.)

Seemingly out of nowhere, Ian asks if he wants kids and the other Mickey says, “Hell no. With your mental problems and my family’s comfort with committing homicides-“ He leaves the rest of the sentence unfinished, ending with a shake of his head.

And Mickey has barely enough time to puzzle over the words _mental problems_ before Ian’s quietly admitting that he, “wouldn’t mind a kid or two,” and Mickey’s heart clenches.

Because Ian’s saying he wants _kids_ with him. And that’s- fuck, he doesn’t know what kind of alternate universe he’s woken up in but it sure as hell can’t be the same one where the two of them keep choking back the words they really want to say.

He watches himself watching Ian, feels like his heart might beat all the way out of his fucking chest when he hears himself say, “There’s plenty of strays wanderin’ around the neighbourhood. I’m sure we could pick one up for cheap.” And he doesn’t even recognise his own voice. He’s never heard himself sound so- so…_soft_, so openly fucking in love with Ian Gallagher that he’d willingly talk about having kids with him.

They insult each other then but it sounds too much like compliments until Ian’s voice suddenly becomes serious.

“You ready to do this, Milkovich?”

Mickey sees an assurance on his own face that he’s never felt as he replies, “Damn straight, Gallagher.”

And suddenly the gravity of what he’s seeing hits him.

Holy fuck, he’s getting married.

He’s getting married to _Ian_.

He watches Ian’s hand curve around the back of other Mickey’s head. He watches them share a smile then they’re both leaning in like it’s something they’ve done a thousand times before. And he and Ian have never kissed like this before, have never been anything other than desperate to pull each other closer, to get more, in the handful of times they _have_ kissed.

They’ve never kissed like it’s comforting or familiar or- or like it’s coming home.

Mickey stumbles back a step, mind reeling from what he’s just watched. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to clear his vision before allowing himself one last logning look through the door.

And then everything goes black.

*

Mickey wakes with a jolt, hands flailing until they knock over one of the beer bottles next to him. He blinks his eyes open and feels a pang of disappointment as the sight of his own bedroom greets him. He’s just about to push himself to stand up when memories of his dream – or whatever the fuck it was – come flooding back to him.

Him.

Ian.

Tuxedos.

A wedding.

_Their_ wedding.

Holy fuck he married Ian. He’s _going_ to marry Ian. Someday. One day. Whenever the fuck they get it right.

His mouth twists up involuntarily at the thought and he allows himself to bask in the picture of him and Ian wrapped around each other – _happy_ – for just a minute before reality hits him.

Ian is leaving for the army. Today.

Mickey’s hands scrabble against the wall as he drags himself upward. He reaches for his boots, stuffing his feet into them and not bothering to do up the laces before dodging around his bed to grab his coat off the chair in the corner. He yanks it on as he pulls the door open, ready to run for dear life to Ian’s house until his eyes catch on his left hand.

Setting his jaw, he twists the ring off his finger and tosses it on the bed.

(He’ll have to put it back on. He knows he will. But he can’t wear it right now. Not for what he’s about to do.)

With one final look at the remnants of last night’s pity party, he takes off for the Gallagher house.

*

He pounds on the Gallaghers’ front door and very nearly punches Debbie in the face when she opens it before he expects. “Is Ian here?” he asks, breathless.

Debbie eyes him warily before she leans against the doorframe and folds her arms, affecting a causal air. It’s pretty impressive for a twelve year old. “Why? He owe you money or something?”

“Fucking- no!” he exclaims, frustrated. “I just need to talk to him. Is he here?”

Don’t be too late. Please don’t be too fucking late.

Debbie’s gaze turns scrutinising and Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck she sees but she steps aside. “His room’s the first on the left.”

_I know_, Mickey doesn’t bother saying, just brushes past her and hurries up the stairs.

He blows Ian’s door open only to come face to face with other boy the second he stumbles inside. Ian is stood, frozen, in front of his bed as he gapes at Mickey and Mickey is silently thankful the room appears empty besides the two of them. He doesn’t know if he could do this with an audience.

“Mickey, what-“

“Don’t go,” Mickey says, cutting him off. He steps forward, curling his hand around Ian’s jaw and meeting his eyes with a shaky breath. “Please don’t go. I don’t know how the fuck to fix this but I’ll _fix_ it. Just- don’t go. Please, Gallagher.”

Ian’s eyes flicker all over his face, like he’s searching for the lie but when he doesn’t seem to find one his gaze darts from Mickey’s eyes to his mouth.

And it’s all the incentive Mickey needs to pull him down into a searing kiss, slotting their lips together and holding onto Ian for dear life. Ian kisses back without hesitation, one hand gripping the back of Mickey’s head – the same way Mickey had seen the older version of him do – while his other hand fists in Mickey’s jacket.

“You mean it?” he asks, mumbling the words against Mickey’s mouth and Mickey nods desperately, not willing to separate from him to answer properly.

“I mean it,” he promises. “We’ll figure it out.”

Ian pulls back just enough to look in his eyes once more and for the first time, Mickey sees that fierce surety that they’ll get through this that the other version of them had. He hopes Ian can see the same thing in his own face.

Ian crowds in close again after that, drawing him into another kiss and Mickey feels all the tension from the past few days finally leak out of his body.

It feels like coming home.

*


	2. 5x12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus christ, please say he didn’t ruin someone’s wedding.
> 
> He creeps around the periphery of the room and it’s only when he’s sure he’s hidden from sight that he actually looks to the altar. The sight that greets almost knocks him clean over.
> 
> Because that’s _him_.
> 
> That’s _him and Mickey_.
> 
> _You gonna marry me? Are we gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple of old queens?_
> 
> That’s what he’d said to Mickey yesterday. It had been cruel and unfair but also a silent plea for a life he’d wanted them to have once before everything when to shit.
> 
> Now, he stands with a lump in his throat, staring at himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the lovely response to chapter 1!!! i'm glad you're enjoying it so far :') here's ian in 5x12 trying to get things right <3
> 
> just a slight warning that ian is obviously in quite a depressed mindset in this chapter and there are references to his bipolar.

Ian stares at the ceiling in his bedroom, counting the chorus of breaths from his brothers to try to fall asleep. It hasn’t worked so far. His eyes are red raw from crying and he feels a bone-deep kind of tired but sleep still won’t come.

All he can think of is Mickey’s face. The way it shuttered as soon as he realised this was it, the betrayal when he said, “This is you breaking up with me?”

Ian squeezes his eyes shut and takes a steadying breath. He did the right thing – he knows he did the right thing. Sure, he hurt Mickey now but it’d be worse to let him stay, to let him deal with every fucked up version of Ian over and over again until their relationship is just a shell of what it used to be. Until Ian is someone completely unrecognisable.

He can deal with Mickey hating him now. He doesn’t think he could deal with it if it happened years down the line. He’s already in too deep.

The worst part is he already misses him.

Ian has felt like he’s suffocating for weeks now but there have been moments – fleeting ones – where he’d started feeling like things were getting better. Or if not better, that they would be one day. Mickey had always been the one there during those moments.

But it’s selfish of Ian to want to keep Mickey now.

Not when all he’s done is hurt him – not when all he’s _going to do_ is hurt him.

It’s the right thing to do. It just doesn’t really feel like it right now.

*

Ian wakes up and he can’t remember ever falling asleep but he supposes he should be glad he’s gotten some rest. It’s music that roused him, he realises as he squints his eyes open, leaning up on his forearms. It takes him too long to become aware of the fact that he’s not in his own bed. That he’s not even in his own house.

He pushes himself to sit up properly and glances around, eyes catching on a sign for The Polish Doll on the wall. It makes his brow furrow in confusion before a swell of panic rises inside him.

He _didn’t_.

He couldn’t have had another episode. There would’ve been signs – someone would’ve noticed and made sure he stayed home, would’ve watched over him. Someone would’ve stopped him.

He stands on shaky legs, too afraid to leave the room but knowing he needs to face up to whatever fucked up thing he’s done this time. It can’t be worse than what happened with Yevgeny.

He opens the door gently, edging his way out into the corridor towards the bar. His gaze lands on the rows of people and suddenly the music from before makes more sense. This must be someone’s wedding.

Jesus christ, please say he didn’t ruin someone’s wedding.

He creeps around the periphery of the room and it’s only when he’s sure he’s hidden from sight that he actually looks to the altar. The sight that greets almost knocks him clean over.

Because that’s _him_.

That’s _him and Mickey_.

_You gonna marry me? Are we gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple of old queens?_

That’s what he’d said to Mickey yesterday. It had been cruel and unfair but also a silent plea for a life he’d wanted them to have once before everything when to shit.

Now, he stands with a lump in his throat, staring at himself.

He doesn’t look the same – he’s older, obviously – but it’s more than that. He looks healthy, he looks happy. But it’s nothing compared to Mickey. Mickey who’s holding his hands for all the world to see, Mickey who’s smiling at him with a quiet kind of surety and a light in his eyes that Ian’s never seen in his own Mickey.

What the fuck is going on?

He spends too long trying to parse together what’s happening, eyes drifting to the crowd every so often to look for people he recognises but he can’t help the way his gaze keeps being drawn back to the altar. He hears the word “vows” and his heart seizes in his chest, mouth dry as he waits with bated breath. Because Mickey looks at the other version of him with so much sincerity as he says, “I, Mikhailo, take you, Ian, to be my husband,” and Ian feels something in him break.

Mickey continues, voice wavering and tears blur Ian’s vision the moment he hears the words, “In sickness and in health.”

_It means thick and thin. Good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit._

Fuck.

He can’t even say he’s surprised, really. He is, obviously. But at the same time he thinks he’s always known Mickey is capable of this kind of devotion, has shown it more and more these past few months. And Ian- Ian had so desperately wanted to believe that he wasn’t worthy of it, that they were both better off without it.

But watching himself say, “_Mickey_,” so tenderly and recite his vows in front of everyone, it makes him think he might’ve been wrong.

He sniffles, wiping hastily at his eyes and it’s almost like he and the other version of him are connected because Ian on the altar says, “Now?” and draws Mickey into a kiss and Ian feels his own heart finally start to beat properly again, swollen with a fulfilment that isn’t really his.

Not yet, anyway.

*

Ian feels cold when he wakes up, closing his eyes again as soon as he’s opened them once he realises he’s back in his own room. He would’ve liked to have stayed a little bit longer. To live in a moment of happiness like that that feels so far out of his reach right now. It’s still dark in his room but that doesn’t mean much – he’s been wallowing in here with the blinds closed all week and the only person who ever tries to drag them open is Fiona.

Feeling blindly for his phone he checks the time. It’s 6:30 in the morning, too early for anyone else to be up yet.

Ian’s mind drifts to Mickey. The one who stood opposite a different version of Ian with a beaming smile and a wedding ring on his finger. The one who stood in front of him yesterday begging him not to let this go.

Tears blur his vision again and after one steeling breath he makes himself climb out of bed.

He walks to the Milkovich house with his hands stuffed in his pockets, following after the clouds of breath trailing from his mouth. He’s glad for the silent solitude of the early hour of the morning, glad to listen to the white noise of the world still asleep as he tries to sort his head out.

The truth is his life has never been better when Mickey isn’t around and it isn’t now either.

He’d like to think Mickey’s life could be better without him though – lord knows it’s what he deserves. But maybe…maybe Ian can find a way to make it better too. He can be better for Mickey. If what he saw is true, he has to.

When he reaches the Milkovich house it’s a little after 7:00 and Ian knocks on the door – doesn’t bang because Mickey and Svetlana will both bitch about it and Ian isn’t built for loud noises right now anyway.

Mercifully, Mickey is the one to open the door, looking sleep-soft and tired and Ian wants to crawl straight into his arms.

Instead he says, “I’m sorry,” voice croaky from disuse and Mickey hadn’t been moving but he still visibly stills at the words.

“What?” Mickey asks, though it doesn’t really sound like a question. Ian’s more focused on how wounded he sounds, like he won’t even allow himself to hope.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats and his voice is clearer now but it still wobbles without him meaning to. “I’m sorry I pushed you away and acted like a fucking prick. I’m just-“ Ian takes a trembling breath, staring down at the ground as he forces the words out. “I’m just really fucking scared, Mick.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything but Ian looks up when he sees his feet step forward onto the porch. He barely has a chance to catch the heart-wrenching look on Mickey’s face before Mickey’s pulling him into his arms and hugging him tight.

Ian hugs him back with every ounce of strength he can muster, arms wound tight around Mickey’s back and shoulders. “I love you,” he whispers, burying the words in the spot where Mickey’s neck meets his shoulder. “I really, really love you.”

He feels Mickey shudder against him as he says it again and Ian feels better, getting to be the one running a soothing hand down Mickey’s back rather than the other way around. “I’ll get better for you, Mick,” he mumbles. “I promise I’ll get better.”

Mickey’s hands clench tighter in his coat and he shifts until his cheek is tucked against Ian’s. “You don’t gotta get better for me. You just- we’ll get through it together, alright?”

“We’ll take care of each other,” Ian says, echoing Mickey’s words from yesterday.

Mickey pulls back enough to stare at him, nodding after a beat. “You tired?” he asks gently.

And Ian is. He so fucking tired and he wishes he could suddenly feel better, could suddenly smile and kiss Mickey senseless now that they’ve made up but the fog blurring the edges of his mind is still there. His heart feels settled now, being here with Mickey, but he still aches all over and he still wants nothing more than to lie down.

So he nods at Mickey, not trusting his voice, and lets Mickey take his hand to lead him into the house.

Ian doesn’t know what room Svetlana’s staying in but he’s just glad it isn’t Mickey’s. He takes off his coat on autopilot when they reach the bedroom, slipping out of his shoes and sinking down onto Mickey’s bed, instantly comforted by the familiar smell of laundromat soap and _Mickey_.

Hardly a moment later Mickey is crawling in next to him, pulling the blanket up around them and drawing Ian into his chest. Ian pillows his head over Mickey’s heart, closing his eyes as the steady rhythm of Mickey’s heartbeat soothes him. Mickey presses a kiss to the top of his head and Ian opens his eyes again, gaze landing on Mickey’s left hand.

There’s a ring on his finger but it’s not the right one. Ian reaches over and laces their fingers together and Mickey squeezes his hand. It’s grounding. More grounding than anything anyone else has done for him recently.

Ian gives their linked hands a lingering look before letting his eyes fall closed and silently promising himself that it’ll be his ring on Mickey’s finger one day.

For right now, though, this is more than enough.

*


	3. 7x11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian kisses the other him long and hard and Mickey swallows around the tightness in his throat when he notices the rings on both their fingers as they reach up to clutch at each other’s faces.
> 
> Fuck, his mind is a sick, cruel place. This is more tortuous than any of the shit he ever had to put up with in prison.
> 
> Worst of all, he wants to believe it’s real. He wants to believe this isn’t just some concoction his inebriated brain came up with but- but a premonition or some shit. The future. Proof. That he shouldn’t give up on them yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i know i said each of these chapters could be read as standalones _but_ this and the next chapter sort of follow into one another so while there's no big reunion in this chapter, hold tight bc it's coming!!! also i know ian and mickey don't kiss in the car in 10x12 but here they do bc it's my fic and i can do what i want lol
> 
> but for now, it's time for s7 mickey to get a little bit of hope :')
> 
> enjoy <3

Mickey sits in the backseat of the stolen car with a bottle of tequila in his hand. He needs to ditch the car – should’ve ditched it the same time he ditched the clothes as soon as he got over the border – but he needs somewhere to hide away for a while before he makes his next move. He needs to grieve Ian Gallagher in peace one more time and then in the morning, he’ll shove Ian to the back of his mind, locked up in a tiny box that he only ever dares dip into in his weakest moments.

Fucking hell, he can’t believe he lost him again.

And it’s not- it’s not like he doesn’t get it because he does. He gets Ian needs fucking stability and easy access to his meds and that a life on the run doesn’t offer that. But he’d hoped. He’d hoped so badly that they could just be together anyway, that they could figure all that shit out along the way and it wouldn’t matter because they’d _be together._

It was fucking stupid of him to ever believe he can get what he wants.

He takes another swig of tequila, grimacing at the way it burns his throat. It’s not enough to numb the pain but it’s an easier pain to focus on than the one in his chest.

And the thing is he should hate Ian. He should absolutely fucking despise him for letting him down again, for making promises he can’t keep…but he _can’t._

He can’t and he hates himself for it because he loves Ian more than he’s ever loved anything in his life and he doesn’t know how to stop. He couldn’t stop when he was seventeen and could barely even admit his feelings to himself. He couldn’t stop when he was in prison and Ian stopped visiting. He can’t stop now.

And the worst thing is there’s still some traitorous part of his heart that hopes against hope that they’ll still make it.

Even with Ian leaving him at the border, even with their final goodbye, there’s still a voice in Mickey’s head whispering, _you’re not done_.

Truth is he doesn’t want to be done with Ian. Dreads the day Ian fucking Gallagher stops being important to him. Because Ian is proof that he can do it; he can love someone and love them _right_. Even if everything else is wrong.

A lump forms in his throat and Mickey swallows hard around another pull of tequila to try and get rid of it.

He closes his eyes and tells himself one day it won’t fucking hurt this much.

*

Mickey’s eyes flicker open slowly and he thinks it’s the bright Mexican sun that’s blinding him at first. It isn’t until he’s rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and shifted in his seat that he realises he’s not in the car at all. It makes him jump, panic paralysing him in an instant as he assumes he’s been caught. What other explanation could there be? He just fucking escaped from prison and illegally crossed the Mexican border and now he’s not in the car he distinctly remembers falling asleep in.

Only…he doesn’t actually remember falling asleep.

Shit. What the fuck has he gotten himself into this time?

Mickey takes stock of himself first, patting himself down, and once he’s content there’re no visible cuts or bruises he takes a look around. It looks like he’s in a bar if the room full of kegs is any indication – which is slightly less concerning than he’d anticipated. He wouldn’t put it past his tequila-addled brain to decide he needed more alcohol when he ran out.

Okay, so maybe that’s all that happened. He got drunk thinking about Ian and went to drown his sorrows in some dive bar before passing out.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Though he can’t shake the feeling that something about this place feels too familiar. And too out of place for where he’s supposed to be.

Slowly padding towards the door, Mickey studies the walls. The Polish paraphernalia seems a little out of place for a bar just beyond the Mexican border but he decides not to dwell on it.

The music floating beyond the doorway is a little harder to ignore.

It’s some shitty, romantic piano ballad and pretty much the exact opposite of what he expects to hear at ass o’clock in the morning in a bar. Feeling slightly unnerved, he closes his hand around the door handle and pushes down carefully. He freezes before he even gets the door halfway open.

He feels like he walked into his own fucking dream.

It’s a wedding – it’s so obviously a wedding – but the thing that completely cripples him is that he sees Ian before he sees anything else.

Ian in a tux with the top buttons open and an undone bowtie around his neck, hair a little dishevelled and a look of pure elation on his face.

Fucking hell he’s so beautiful Mickey can’t handle it.

He follows Ian’s gaze and there’s a part of him, in the deepest recesses of his brain, that knows what he’s going to see before he sees it. He’s still not prepared to see his own face though.

He’s in a similar state to Ian though the bowtie’s still intact and before he can even take a breath, Mickey feels tears burn behind his eyes. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest as he watches Ian saunter over to this other version of him to reel him in. They kiss and Mickey almost needs to look away because this is too much too soon when the image of Ian leaving him is still so fresh in his mind. But he watches anyway because he’s a fucking glutton for punishment when it comes to Ian Gallagher.

Ian kisses the other him long and hard and Mickey swallows around the tightness in his throat when he notices the rings on both their fingers as they reach up to clutch at each other’s faces.

Fuck, his mind is a sick, cruel place. This is more tortuous than any of the shit he ever had to put up with in prison.

Worst of all, he wants to believe it’s real. He wants to believe this isn’t just some concoction his inebriated brain came up with but- but a premonition or some shit. The future. Proof. That he shouldn’t give up on them yet.

He watches Ian laugh against his mouth. Well- the other Mickey’s mouth and he never thought he could be jealous of himself but he wants nothing more than to march over there and pull Ian away, claim him for his own. Hold him one last time.

Kev’s voice booming over the loudspeaker distracts him then and Mickey snaps his head in the other direction to find Kev on the stage with a microphone in hand and who Mickey guesses is Liam by his side – fuck, he got big. “Alright, lovebirds! Thanks to this little man, your chariot awaits you outside.”

Mickey quickly seeks out Ian and the other Mickey and feels his heart pound a little harder in his chest as he watches them link hands with beaming grins.

The bar empties out in almost record speed and Mickey slips easily into the crowd, hood up and head down so he can watch what happens. He stands with the guests just outside the front door and has barely enough time to appreciate the swanky ass car Liam scored before everyone starts cheering and throwing shit and he has to crane his neck to watch himself and Ian making their way through the path cleared for them.

There’s something particularly heartrending watching them make their way to the car, watching the way the other Mickey holds the door open for Ian before hopping in beside him, the way they lock eyes for mere seconds and press a firm kiss to each other’s lips, the way Mickey throws his arm over the back of the seat so he can keep touching Ian as they drive away.

The fact that they drive away at all.

He reaches up hastily to brush the tears out of his eyes, just catching sight of the “Just Married” sign on the trunk of the car before it disappears out of sight.

And christ, he wants that to be him.

He wants to believe that really is him. That this is his future.

He looks down at his own hands, bare and empty and still possessing the phantom sensation of Ian’s touch and tells himself it’s not over. It wasn’t before and it isn’t now. It can’t be.

They’ll find their way back to each other.

If this is what he thinks it is then they have to.

*

The next time he opens his eyes he’s back in the car, the mostly empty tequila bottle still in his hand. And he’s still fucking heartbroken but inexplicably, he finds himself smiling anyway.

They’re not done yet.

*

He sees Ian’s face on some rich kid’s t-shirt and calls him back to do a deal before he even realises the words are out of his mouth. He keeps his face concealed, voice neutral as he asks what they want. It’s only as they’re paying that he can’t help himself anymore.

“What’s with your shirt?”

“Gay Jesus?” the guy says hesitantly and what the actual fuck has Ian gotten himself into this time? “This guy going to prison in Chicago – he blew up a van to keep local queers from being converted.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, mostly because his heart is in his throat. And the kid seems too afraid of his response to stick around to elaborate anymore, turning tail with his buddy as soon as they get what they want.

Mickey turns away as they take off, muttering that he needs a smoke break. As soon as he rounds the corner he picks up the pace, taking his burner phone out of his pocket. A quick google search and he finds enough articles to figure out what the fuck is happening to Ian. There’s the initial panic, the fear that this was Ian’s mania and not Ian. And then there’s the other part of him, the longing that rears its ugly head once again the second he reads Ian’s name.

As he cuts through the busy streets to make a beeline for the shitty apartment he’s been staying in, he starts formulating the plan in his head.

It’s time to get back to him.

*


	4. Season 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s about to step onto the dancefloor when the sight of someone else stops him in his tracks.
> 
> _Mickey._
> 
> Ian stares with wide eyes as he drinks Mickey in. He looks- fuck, he looks fucking gorgeous. Dressed up in a tux with his hair slicked back and looking like everything Ian could ever want and more.
> 
> He’s so focused on Mickey he doesn’t notice the person walking towards him until they’re pulling Mickey away and Ian’s knees almost buckle because that’s _him._
> 
> He watches himself, baffled, as he walks towards Mickey, watches the way Mickey’s entire being softens at the sight of him and immediately feels tears well up in his eyes when the other Ian pulls Mickey into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay!!! so here's the continuation of the previous chapter - you know we had to get ian's pov too :D also i'm sorry i had to mention trevor's name but i promise he doesn't speak lmao this is set at some indeterminable time during season 8 bc i literally can't remember the timeline for that season asdjhs
> 
> but anyway! hopefully this reunion lives up to expectations!!  
enjoy <3

Ian stares up at the ceiling above him, absently aware of Trevor asleep beside him. And he should be happy, he thinks. He got Trevor to forgive him, they’re back on track – he should be thrilled. But he’s not and he’s not exactly ready to admit why that is. This is what he’s _supposed_ to do; everyone’s said this is what’s right for him…so why doesn’t it feel like it?

Why does he slowly feel like he’s losing his grip?

Like he hasn’t settled right in his skin once in the past few months?

Ever since…

Well- ever since he said goodbye to Mickey.

He knows in his head that taking off to Mexico wouldn’t have been good for him and he’s proud of himself for actually taking his mental health into consideration but…he didn’t think Mickey would still be on his mind all this time later.

He misses him and it always comes back to him in moments like this – when his thoughts aren’t being distracted by anything else, late at night when his mind resets to default mode. Because Mickey has always been his default. He knows it’s his fault they’re not together anymore but god, he can’t stop thinking about him.

And he’s been trying so hard to find something that makes him feel the way Mickey did but the truth is, he doesn’t think there’s anything in this world that could make him feel what Mickey made him feel. The fact that no one else gets it only proves it to him, honestly.

Letting out a sigh, he closes his eyes and wonders about what Mickey is doing right now.

Wherever he is, Ian hopes he’s free.

*

Ian frowns as he wakes up, screwing his eyes shut tighter and feeling for his pillow to throw over his head to block out the noise.

…Only there is no pillow.

Ian huffs out a breath and forces himself to open his eyes, bolting upright a moment later once he realises he’s not in his bedroom. He twists around, gaping in shock at what looks to be a supply room.

What the actual fuck?

Slowly, he gathers himself to his feet, casting a hesitant glance around the room as he tries to recall what happened last night. He can’t remember anything though – his last memory is lying in bed with Trevor asleep beside him. Now he’s somehow in…_The Polish Doll?_ The sign above the door makes him rear back in befuddlement – how the fuck did he end up in The Polish Doll?

Ian pads towards the door to the supply room, opening it a fraction and peeking outside. There’s a short corridor that leads to the main room and Ian can just make out the strains of Katy Perry’s Firework as he steps through the door. He freezes when he reaches the end of the corridor, taking in the wedding decorations adorning the room. So he somehow sleepwalked into someone’s wedding – not exactly the worst thing he’s ever done.

The music changes as his gaze travels around the room and he feels a brief flash of relief when he spots Kev and V at one of the empty tables. Maybe they can help him figure out what the fuck happened.

He’s about to step onto the dancefloor when the sight of someone else stops him in his tracks.

_Mickey_.

Ian stares with wide eyes as he drinks Mickey in. He looks- fuck, he looks fucking gorgeous. Dressed up in a tux with his hair slicked back and looking like everything Ian could ever want and more.

He’s so focused on Mickey he doesn’t notice the person walking towards him until they’re pulling Mickey away and Ian’s knees almost buckle because that’s _him_.

He watches himself, baffled, as he walks towards Mickey, watches the way Mickey’s entire _being_ softens at the sight of him and immediately feels tears well up in his eyes when the other Ian pulls Mickey into his arms.

They’re _dancing_ and Ian never imagined in his wildest dreams there’d be a day where he’d get to slow dance with Mickey Milkovich but here’s this other version of him, totally wrapping Mickey up in his arms and swaying them to the beat. And Mickey’s just letting him, his own arms spread over Other-Ian’s back and his face hidden in the crook of his neck.

It’s like a punch to the gut because Ian knows exactly what the other version of him is thinking. He can see it in his face, in the way he presses his mouth to the side of Mickey’s neck, in the way he clings to Mickey. He can see the- _comfort_. And the fulfilment and the knowledge that his rightful place in the world is in Mickey’s arms.

And Ian knows that because he’s felt it. He’s felt it so many times and he’s been futilely trying to replicate it in some other way but he can’t. Because nothing feels like safety the way Mickey does.

His heart twists in his chest as he allows himself to be enraptured by the sight of them and he’s not sure when he starts openly crying but it’s probably around the same time he notices the rings on the other Ian’s fingers.

It suddenly hits him then.

The wedding decorations. The tuxes. The rings.

This is their wedding.

Ian releases a shaky breath, leaning against the wall for support but not daring to look away from the sight in front of him.

The strangest thing is they don’t look that much older – this looks like it could be any day now. Like it could be today if Mickey were really here. Ian hasn’t let himself hope for marriage since he was a lovesick teenager but this- is this even real?

Or has he finally just reached the point where being without Mickey has become so unbearable he’s started making up scenarios in his head to cope?

Mickey shifts in Other-Ian’s arms then, pulling back just a fraction to press their foreheads together and it takes everything Ian has not to go over there, not to reach for him and apologise and beg him to never leave again. But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he watches them gaze at each other with mirroring smiles and grips the wall too hard when he sees them share a kiss.

God, he wants that to really be them.

*

When Ian opens his eyes again he’s back in his room with Trevor next to him and he can’t help the pang of longing that hits him, the wish to crawl back to wherever he was just to live in the moment a bit longer.

Still, as he plays over the scene in his head he finds his mouth lifting in a smile.

It’s a rueful kind of smile, filled with regret at letting Mickey go but there’s hope there too. Hope that one day they’ll find their way back to each other.

It’ll be right one day. He knows it.

*

Ian would like to say prison doesn’t intimidate him but the moment he hears his cell door open behind him he has to admit his heartrate spikes. Fuck, he’s not ready for some thug to list all the ways he’s going to make his life a living hell. Could he not have just had one last moment of peace? Steeling himself for the onslaught, he turns around.

The sight of Mickey standing before him with a soft smile on his face very nearly makes Ian’s knees give out.

“I rolled on a cartel I was working for,” Mickey tells him, unprompted. “And in exchange, guess who gets to pick where he gets locked up?”

“Holy fuck,” he utters, the words tumbling from his mouth before he even realises he’s speaking.

Mickey’s mouth quirks and he starts walking towards him. Ian’s hands spasm at his sides with a need to reach out but Mickey bypasses him to make his way to the beds instead. “Oh hey. I got bottom so you’re on top.”

He sprawls himself out on the bottom bunk, hands behind his head and a smirk on his face that’s just daring Ian to do something and it’s been too long but Ian still gets the same rush in his stomach that he used to when he was fifteen.

He throws a haphazard look towards the window into their cell, hardly checking long enough to see if anyone’s paying attention before he’s rushing over and climbing on top of Mickey, grabbing at one of his wrists to hold him in place.

Mickey lets him, watching Ian with a quiet expression, and Ian lets out a harsh breath as he carefully reaches up his free hand to tremble over Mickey’s jaw. He takes a second to study Mickey’s expression, to drink him in, and then he’s leaning down at the same time Mickey’s reaching up, their mouths meeting in the middle.

And it’s so unlike the desperate kisses they’ve shared in the past – it’s more gentle, more familiar even though it shouldn’t be. It feels like coming home. It feels like the world is finally on the right axis again.

“Is it really you?” he mumbles, mouth only a hairsbreadth away from Mickey’s and his mind on a time where they held each other close while their wedding rings winked in the fairy lights.

Mickey’s head falls back against the pillow as he regards Ian with an unreadable expression and Ian doesn’t know how but it’s almost as if Mickey can tell exactly what he’s thinking about. “Yeah, Ian, it’s me,” he whispers, twisting the hand Ian still has pinned to the bed to fold their fingers together.

Ian releases a breath, mouth curling up in a disbelieving grin as he tips their foreheads together. “I love you,” he says because he needs to say that before he says anything else.

The fact that Mickey looks like he believes him is more gratifying than he could’ve hoped for. “I know,” he replies quietly but his voice is sure, solid. “You think I would’ve come back otherwise?”

Ian kisses his jaw in response and he wants to keep kissing him – never wants to stop kissing him – but also he just really wants to hold him right now. So he lets his weight relax on top of Mickey and curls into him, hugging him close and mouthing at whatever part of him he can reach.

“I love you too,” Mickey murmurs then, fingers trailing through Ian’s hair and lips pressed to his temple.

“Who woulda thought our happy ending would be in prison, huh?” Ian asks, huffing a laugh as his hands travel over Mickey’s sides.

Mickey hums in acknowledgement before he speaks again, “Not so sure this is the end of anything, Gallagher.”

Ian’s mind once again floats to the day in the distant-or-maybe-not future and he finds himself smiling. “You’re probably right.”

It’s the start.

*


	5. 10x10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that alone would be enough to overwhelm him but it’s nothing compared to what follows immediately afterwards. Because Mickey is looking up at him – the other him – with a look of pure…_love_. There’s no other word for it. It’s devotion, it’s surety, it’s fulfilment and suddenly Ian feels like the biggest idiot on the planet.
> 
> Because how could he ever doubt that he’s enough for Mickey when Mickey looks so fucking happy he practically has stars in his eyes? He’s beaming, hands cupping the other Ian’s face, and it’s probably the most public they’ve ever been with the more affectionate part of their relationship but Ian can tell Mickey barely notices the other people around them, can tell this is still a private moment just for the two of them.
> 
> And in that moment, Mandy’s words from years ago suddenly come back to him. _Does he get that look in his eyes when he’s with you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh here we are!!! This fic definitely got harder as the chapter went on because I was so afraid of every chapter feeling like a carbon copy of the previous one (there's only so many ways to write them falling asleep and stumbling upon their future wedding sakdj) but I really, really hope it's been enjoyable. Thank you so much to everyone who's left lovely comments so far, they mean the world :'))
> 
> So, for one final time, let's see them get it right :D
> 
> Enjoy <3

Ian stares at the engagement-turned-promise-ring in front of him and wishes it could hold the secret to all his issues but he knows it doesn’t. He sighs, slumping back on the couch and turns the ring over in his fingers. He wants to be with Mickey for the rest of his life – that’s not even a question – but he can’t quite figure out how to put into words his complicated feelings about marriage.

He’d wanted it – a long time ago, before manic episodes and pills and doctor’s appointments, before his whole perception of what it means to be loved got completely fucking warped. But now…

What if Mickey suddenly wakes up one day and decides he’s too fucking much to deal with? Or worse, what if Mickey doesn’t say anything at all? Just silently puts up with Ian putting him through hell over and over again.

Ian would literally rather die than have that happen.

Sure, he’s been stable for a while now and he knows his own warning signs but the fear is still always looming there; that something will be wrong and he won’t notice because he’s already slipped too far. Or that he’ll wake up one morning and just won’t be able to get out of bed. And it’ll be like resetting them all the way back to square one all over again. 

He knows whether they’re married or not Mickey will have to deal with it somehow but at least if they’re _not_ married Mickey can get away. He can leave without anything legally tying him to Ian, forcing him to stick around longer than he wants to.

(And there’s a secret part of him – the part of him that’s so ashamed of every single way he’s fucked up their relationship – that’s terrified one more slip-up from him will ruin them for good.)

Mickey had already won the award for world’s worst marriage when he was forced to be with Svetlana and Ian point-blank refuses to put Mickey in a situation that makes him feel like that again. 

He just- he wants Mickey and he loves Mickey. More than anything. But he’s not convinced yet that he’s the best thing for Mickey.

He was once upon a time. He’d been so sure that he could make things better for Mickey and he feels like he’s been slowly getting back to that point recently. Things have been really fucking good between them – the trials and tribulations of prison notwithstanding – and they’ve been talking and Ian’s been trying to make amends in every little way he knows how. But the seeds of doubt are still there. The voices in his head that sneer at him and tell him he could never love anyone the right way, that he’s a bomb waiting to explode, are still fucking there.

Closing his eyes, Ian scrubs his hands over his face.

He knows he’s probably not good enough for Mickey.

He hopes he’s wrong though.

*

Ian is woken up by the opening notes of “At Last” by Etta James and it makes him smile in the half a second before he remembers he and Mickey are currently broken up. (He’d never admit it to _anyone_ but the playlist of soppy songs he associates with Mickey is way too fucking long at this point.) Frowning, he pushes himself upright and squints his eyes open.

His eyes land on the wooden floor he’d apparently been sleeping on and he stills, head snapping up in confusion. He’s hidden behind some kind of partition but he can still make out the crowd of people sitting in rows just a few feet away.

What the actual fuck?

He tries to recall his last memory but his mind’s a blur. Fuck, please don’t say he got blackout drunk while wallowing in his self-pity – it wouldn’t be a surprise but he’s not supposed to drink this much on his meds.

Unsteadily climbing to his feet, Ian starts forward. He’s wary as he approaches the rows of people, not exactly sure what he’s walking in on.

Though really, the crowd of people in formal attire and “At Last” playing over the speakers should give him a pretty big fuckin’ hint.

Shit, maybe he did drink last night.

It’s the sudden sound of his own voice that makes him stumble the final few steps towards the partition a moment later. All the air in his body leaves him in a rush as he takes in the sight before him. Of him and Mickey standing together, hands entwined as they recite their vows.

“Now that Mikhailo and Ian have given themselves to each other with these vows and the giving and receiving of rings,” the minister is saying and Ian finds himself blinking back tears, biting at the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t make a sound. Is this really what he thinks it is? “I now pronounce you husband and husband.”

Ian heaves out a breath thick with emotion as the other version of him looks to the minister and he hears the quiet, disbelieving, “Now?” before the other Ian and Mickey are reaching for each other and capturing one another’s lips in a kiss.

And that alone would be enough to overwhelm him but it’s nothing compared to what follows immediately afterwards. Because Mickey is looking up at him – the other him – with a look of pure…_love_. There’s no other word for it. It’s devotion, it’s surety, it’s fulfilment and suddenly Ian feels like the biggest idiot on the planet.

Because how could he ever doubt that he’s enough for Mickey when Mickey looks so fucking happy he practically has stars in his eyes? He’s beaming, hands cupping the other Ian’s face, and it’s probably the most public they’ve ever been with the more affectionate part of their relationship but Ian can tell Mickey barely notices the other people around them, can tell this is still a private moment just for the two of them.

And in that moment, Mandy’s words from years ago suddenly come back to him. _Does he get that look in his eyes when he’s with you?_

Ian huffs out a wet laugh – he’d agonised over what that look meant, convinced it was the only thing in the world that could determine whether or not Mickey had feelings for him. (As if Mickey hasn’t shown him in a million ways since.) But the look on his face now, this is it. It has to be. If anything, it’s more. It’s better than whatever Ian could’ve hoped for when he was sixteen and pining over his crush.

And it’s just- this can’t be a bad idea. Even if it’s hard, even if they fight or Ian has an episode. Marrying Mickey can’t be wrong. Not if it makes Mickey look like that.

Surprisingly, it’s his own words from when he’d been proposing to Mickey that suddenly clarify everything for him. He loves Mickey. And he trusts Mickey.

So maybe this decision really isn’t that hard.

Ian shakes his head, feeling the beginnings of a smile forming on his face as he watches the other Ian and Mickey walk down the aisle hand in hand amid the cheering crowd.

He knows what he needs to do.

*

Mickey is lying on his side next to him in bed after they’ve made up for the third time that night, a satisfied smile on his lips and a ring on his finger where it belongs.

“Hey,” he says, the word tumbling out of his mouth lazily as he traces his index finger over Ian’s chest. “What made you change your mind?”

There hadn’t been all that much talking between the bar and them getting back to the house – even Lip’s little announcement hadn’t stalled them for too long before they were chasing each other up the stairs, tugging at clothes in between breathless kisses.

Ian gets that Mickey probably wants some more reassurance though, proof that his mind won’t change again.

He shifts his head on the pillow to look at Mickey properly, letting his gaze flicker all over Mickey’s face. And he looks so _content_, so like the version of him Ian had seen. Like there’s no fucking doubt in his mind that they’ve made the right choice and this is where they’re supposed to be.

So, Ian turns onto his side until they’re pressed together, legs tangling under the sheet even with one of his out of commission. He lifts his hand, catching Mickey’s chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and answers honestly.

“You.”

Mickey’s eyebrow quirks slightly but other than that his expression doesn’t change.

“You, lookin’ at me like that,” Ian whispers. “If marrying you keeps you looking at me like that then I’ll marry you every fucking year for the rest of our lives. You don’t need to tell me how you know you love me because I know you do. I don’t give a fuck about anything else.”

Mickey doesn’t speak immediately though Ian can see the way his gaze shifts just slightly, the emotion behind his eyes. Finally, he inches that bit closer and trails his fingers over Ian’s cheek, mouth twisting up in a smile. “Jeez, Gallagher. Save some shit for your vows.”

Ian beams at him, drawing Mickey into a lingering kiss. “Or maybe you should start practicing.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows in challenge. “Oh yeah? I’ve said way more romantic shit to you than you ever have.”

“That so?” Ian asks, voice teasing as his hands travel down Mickey’s torso and over his sides. “Remind me.”

Mickey’s grin is blinding as he rolls on top of him and crushes their lips together.

Yeah, Ian is so fucking ready for married life.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I hoped you liked it :') if you're looking for me, you can find me at [littlespooneven](http://littlespooneven.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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